Philippe Beck, p.2
I. HOW THE VAPORS EVAPORATE.
My characters are smoke.
But I won’t visit them in their chimneys.
Fireworks are imperfect.
The imperfections of friends like a Mister Follow (coach).
It’s a matter of friends who follow at the same time.
They have chimneys.
The followers go practically aloof.
All is in the present, in “There is no present” responsible.
Friends are density.
Density = friendship that follows.
A firework develops in friendship.
The firework does not disappoint.
The friend is dense.
Mr.— is a lock of iron.
My characters are smoke.
But I won’t visit them in their chimneys.
Admirer of the column of dark glass (American hawthorne), a man off in the blue with half-drawn eyes, morally glorious, who thought instincts prophetic, feathering his wings.
Fireworks are imperfect.
The imperfections of friends like a Mister Follow (coach).
It’s a matter of friends who follow at the same time.
They have chimneys.
The followers go practically aloof.
All is in the present, in “There is no present” responsible.
Friends are density.
Density = friendship that follows.
A firework develops in friendship.
The firework does not disappoint.
The friend is dense.
Mr.— is a lock of iron.
His characters went to see the publisher: and refused the lake of tears, in utter refusal, pompesque, laborious to refuse. Some proofreaders dive with them now. Any fisherman can row close to surface, but needs a sinker heavier than Galena’s for his net to hit bottom (that floor already trawled by a scalpel in the heart). The fat Lefoc, who oils a diving-suit, is made of more than fat: the heart/brain of addition (poetry) flows apprehensively as sap from a frozen maple.
The plan of these characters is to vanish in failure’s smoke. To have nothing fail, to be not vacant, grey as a vague silhouette, a blown flower bouquet (a lonely cloud bouquet).
A face whose tissue is bathed in all the sun of Indian summer, snow covers the plain, the bull Rudy feels beneath his fingers a marine impression.
The white deer will no longer interrupt Mr. Cordu’s mornings.
Between two humans, wishing to part, there is an impassable divide.
Only that funeral flower of renown sounds in the first sentence where a wind of friendliness blows, solid and lucid.
I won’t spend long vacations pitching tent: every room has a marital density.
At the edge of a distant glacier, a great tourism forgets subtle lighting. Because it is great tourism. People turn.
Wheat field beneath the hotel, relieved of gale-force wind, with reprieves of “Think of one” and the others who breathe without berated hair, who blow with no thyrsus against the guide. A kiss refreshes tourism.
Member shifts in place, especially the crossbar, drawn to Her very firmness, Her member with my severe parallel apart from her firmness, from the roof my character (he answers most profoundly) affects the hawthorne’s obscurity.
He refuses to go far from home: long after, changed, he comes home to his place, not far from her place. And back at his place, unrecognized by her own rainfall over him (young thrush rainfall), she waits and receives guests as Mme.— the marquise of greetings, as Mme. Re-recantation (Re-re, re-new).
“Who are you?” The “four letters” is bread in the future minus phenomenon, crumbled, solid, your this-place-is-empty-let’s-blow of the envied (your popular fig).
The maniac accelerates without violence. A dissolvable stone in place of his heart, naked firework, topless, abyss. In place of my heart, propellant, a capital pain, incapable of writing you, at the floor of the deep: the touch.
My characters don’t melt. Mr. “No” met Mr. Follow. Two hats seen from behind, two jerseys along in the race.
A large bottom is not the mountain we could easily see level off. The bird doesn’t vault.
Mr. X was in bed, at the Telemachus Hotel, with his steady companion.
Who are you? The characters are fireworks; a density of thread for not taking flight.
What are in-laws? A notebook.
At boarding school, the breathless maid outside my room, Woody Gallon the whale, swearing off each and every day. A grey bear, or great white bear (the white bear is almost commonplace now, a groove worn in by thirty-six crayons of children some day, perhaps.)
A face whose tissue is bathed in all the sun of Indian summer, snow covers the plain, the bull Rudy feels beneath his fingers a marine impression.
The white deer will no longer interrupt Mr. Cordu’s mornings.
Between two humans, wishing to part, there is an impassable divide.
Only that funeral flower of renown sounds in the first sentence where a wind of friendliness blows, solid and lucid.
I won’t spend long vacations pitching tent: every room has a marital density.
At the edge of a distant glacier, a great tourism forgets subtle lighting. Because it is great tourism. People turn.
Wheat field beneath the hotel, relieved of gale-force wind, with reprieves of “Think of one” and the others who breathe without berated hair, who blow with no thyrsus against the guide. A kiss refreshes tourism.
Member shifts in place, especially the crossbar, drawn to Her very firmness, Her member with my severe parallel apart from her firmness, from the roof my character (he answers most profoundly) affects the hawthorne’s obscurity.
He refuses to go far from home: long after, changed, he comes home to his place, not far from her place. And back at his place, unrecognized by her own rainfall over him (young thrush rainfall), she waits and receives guests as Mme.— the marquise of greetings, as Mme. Re-recantation (Re-re, re-new).
“Who are you?” The “four letters” is bread in the future minus phenomenon, crumbled, solid, your this-place-is-empty-let’s-blow of the envied (your popular fig).
The maniac accelerates without violence. A dissolvable stone in place of his heart, naked firework, topless, abyss. In place of my heart, propellant, a capital pain, incapable of writing you, at the floor of the deep: the touch.
My characters don’t melt. Mr. “No” met Mr. Follow. Two hats seen from behind, two jerseys along in the race.
A large bottom is not the mountain we could easily see level off. The bird doesn’t vault.
Mr. X was in bed, at the Telemachus Hotel, with his steady companion.
Who are you? The characters are fireworks; a density of thread for not taking flight.
What are in-laws? A notebook.
At boarding school, the breathless maid outside my room, Woody Gallon the whale, swearing off each and every day. A grey bear, or great white bear (the white bear is almost commonplace now, a groove worn in by thirty-six crayons of children some day, perhaps.)